the steady pull of possibility
by imperfectandchaotic
Summary: Ariadne considers a tempting future. Post "Capitulation" epilogue/one-shot...thing. AxA


**the steady pull of possibility**

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own _Inception._

**Note: **The epilogue that couldn't quite be. Not sure what it is, but the last bit of Cap was just a little too far to come back from. Not that that's a bad thing. So instead it's a one shot. Cuteness abounds. You are all very dear to me. Thank you again. To be honest this is OOC even for Cap standards, but I couldn't help myself.

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><p>"Remind me why I'm doing this?"<p>

She laughs lightly, leaning on his arm as bright summer days come to mind. "Because you're her favourite uncle."

An exasperated sigh. "You do realize we're not _actually _related right?"

Ariadne snorts. "You're her favourite," she insists. Arthur turns to look down at her, dubious in that silent way of his, and the architect leans up on her toes to meet him. "Mine too."

It's been years and he still takes her breath away. He smiles as they pull apart with his arm now loped around her back. Ariadne takes advantage of his inattention, reaching to knock on the door. Footsteps are heard almost immediately. The point man's brow furrows. "That was cheap."

"But it works every time," she sing-songs. "Now come on. It'll be over soon."

Arthur lets out a disbelieving breath, but smiles again. Victory, Ariadne thinks as the door swings open.

"Hey, there you guys are. We were wondering if you'd gotten lost or something." Brielle's smile is still unnervingly knowing. The architect blushes, dropping her gaze. For his part, the point man just clears his throat. "We come bearing gifts." It sounds more like a question than a statement.

Arthur extends the sizable box under his arm as more of a peace offering than anything else. Ariadne, newly composed, stifles her giggles as Brielle just raises an eyebrow. "Have you forgotten the planet I swallowed eight months ago?" The woman runs a hand over her decidedly large stomach and rests it there. Her brow furrows as her face pinches into a frown. "I'm the size of a house."

"Hey." The architect leans silently back on her heels, knowing what's coming from the man at her side, because he somehow always knows what to say. "You're beautiful."

Brielle features relax (to their relief) and she turns to Ariadne. "He's good at that, isn't he?"

"The best."

Arthur just squeezes her hand as they follow their no-longer-neighbour into the house.

"Drink?"

"If by drink you mean cranberry juice, then yes."

Brielle's eyes twinkle as she hands Arthur his favourite beer and reaches for a glass. "This is why we're best friends, you know?"

Ariadne leans on the counter, nodding in agreement. She feels so incredibly light. It's a wondrous thing. When Brielle turns around to scrutinize the lit oven, Arthur, half-in and half-out of the kitchen, leans over. The architect stays very still as his nose grazes the pulse point of her neck, followed by his lips on her bare shoulder, once, twice, soft like starlight.

"Love you," he murmurs, and her entire body aches for him. Ariadne turns then, tilting her chin up until they're scant inches apart and Arthur's eyes deepen in colour and dance with something so wonderfully familiar.

"Love you," she echoes back to him. His lips twitch and that electric hum builds up like a generator of warmth and the feeling of utter completion. But before she can breach whatever space is left between them and taste what it means to be whole again—

"Uncle Arthur!"

The split-second of disappointment in his gaze is strikingly endearing. It vanishes however, only to be replaced with a wicked kind of grin that Ariadne's only seen a handful of times. That's pretty endearing too.

"Oh no," he stage whispers, winking at her, "that sounds like _a tickle monster!_"

Arthur whips around and catches a giggling child in his arms; her hair is bright like sunshine and her eyes as green as summer grass. Allie laughs (the sound practically tinkling) and claps her hands in delight.

"No, _you _tickle monster, Uncle Arthur."

The sight of a two year old admonishing her point man is a little too much to bear. Ariadne ducks back into the kitchen, biting her lip to keep the laughter in. She hears "You're right," and then the renewed echo of tiny bells drifts down the hall.

**.a.**

Arthur is sprawled on the living room floor, watching attentively as his goddaughter explains the finer points of her multicoloured tutu.

"Do you ever think about it?"

The abrupt question draws her back, to the point where Ariadne realizes she's just been staring in the kitchen at Arthur and Allie with her glass dangling empty and forgotten in her hand.

"It?" she repeats, feeling suddenly like a foolish schoolgirl caught ogling her crush. Brielle tilts her head toward her daughter.

"You know, you, Arthur, a couple of kids?"

"Well I..." The architect exhales, but this sudden stifling pressure on her chest doesn't let up. Ariadne returns her attention to the pair in the other room. They are wearing twin smiles, and she's not sure she's ever seen his skin crinkle so deeply at the corners of his eyes.

The idea draws her mind like her gaze to a sunrise. The possibility stretches before her like an almost tangible horizon, and then—as she can see herself reaching out to touch something untouchable—it's suddenly (bewilderingly, thrillingly) _welcome_.

(Sunlight. Arthur, a darling little girl, and laughter that echoes around their apartment walls.)

"Can you see it, Ari?" Allie's mother smiles kindly, as though _she _can, as though she recognizes that slow dawning in her friend's eyes. Ariadne blinks, understanding belatedly that Brielle, of all people, must be able to. See it, that is. They are silent as the potential and promise of a future stretches out before them, so bright and so undeniably beautiful.

"It's sort of scary," the younger woman admits, her whispered words tapering off into silence. Her stomach turns a little. Brielle hums in understanding.

"It's supposed to be scary," she says. "You're _supposed _to be scared. That's how you know. Listen—" The woman looks down at Ariadne, her face calm. "Can you close your eyes right now? Picture it. You, Arthur, a baby."

So she does.

_The room is green and it has a smiling giraffe painted in one corner. Everything is in dark wood, and books and stuffed animals line shelves. The baby in the crib smiles. Her hair is brown, like the architect's, almost curly but not quite. And then she opens her eyes. They're dark, like a certain point man Ariadne knows and loves. Like the baby's father's. The image catches her heart and refuses to let go._

_In the corner of the room she spots them; they're the only two things on this one shelf. A small golden bishop and a bright red die. And somehow (she has no idea how) Ariadne just knows. Everything is exactly as it should be. _

"How's it look?"

Ariadne finds herself momentarily breathless. It's so split-second frightening in fact that she has to zero in on the one thing that has always anchored her to _here and now, real and safe_: Arthur. He's still there on the floor, still smiling in that just so kind of way, and after a moment the point man lifts his head. They lock eyes (his face softens and her heart stumbles for the briefest of moments).

And in that moment they are finding each other after those days (_dreams, almost weeks, almost years_) apart in the doorway of her apartment again. Just for a second she feels that shift of something—everything—changing, but what's important remains the same:

Herself. Him. Love and bishop and die and the warmth that comes in knowing her reality is leaps, bounds, and _dreams_ beyond anything she could find in the silky caress of a PASIV IV.

The architect can actually feel herself relaxing (fear unravelling in the face of something so loved and constant) and after a heartbeat or two she finds the word that had been stuck in her throat.

"Perfect."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I am so sorry. I wrote this about four times and just...blech. It all felt so...not. The first was okay, but improvements turned into horrible cliches and there was a proposal in there at one point and I had no idea what to do with it. I almost abandoned the idea altogether, but I knew I'd feel guilty about posting other stuff afterwards when I knew this was just...almost there. It's really short too, but epilogues (or post one shots) shouldn't be longer than chapters right? (I'm looking at you, Twilight.)

I passed my first year. Claps for myself, haha. And have been working my butt off to pay for a trip to Quebec I'm taking to study. That's where I've been, if anyone wanted to know. It's one thirty am my time and I'm getting over a vicious allergy induced sickness. At least I finished. :)

My birthday is this Thursday. I'll be legal all across Canada. Isn't that exciting for someone who almost never drinks? :P

I don't know how I feel about this, now that it's finished. How do you feel?

Annie


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